I'm No Hero
by OnyxDove
Summary: Hetalia one shots, mostly about America and England. Latest update: It really shouldn't be like this. England couldn't just ignore the fact that he'd just lost a war for his independence. He couldn't act like nothing happened. I WROTE THIS YEARS AGO. IT'S DEAD.
1. Chapter 1

AN: I've always enjoyed historical Hetalia oneshots, and when I read about the 1950 FIFA World Cup it was just to tempting not to write a little drabble thing. I'm not a huge sports fanatic, so excuse any miswrites. Also, Alfred's opinions on soccer (or football, whatever you want to call it) simply reflect that of the country at the time and not mine. Soccer happens to be my favorite sport to watch next to horseback riding.

Pairings: None, but I guess a little USUK if you squint.

Alfred wasn't one for soccer (or football as Arthur so vehemently corrected him every time that he opened his mouth— every time), but he had agreed to join the countries' viewing of the FIFA World Cup this year. Granted, this entailed lots of teasing, because of his... semiprofessional team.

Well, that was pushing it. One of his players drove a hearse for a funeral parlor, and others were dishwashers on the side. But, that wasn't his fault that the team wasn't paid enough to be full time players! Soccer was stupid. If they wanted a real sport, they'd pick up a good old baseball or a pigskin.

Okay, so this wasn't exactly his jam, but he was still decked out in his team colors: red, white, and blue, naturally. After all, they had qualified, and that had to count for something.

Anyway, it also meant a very drunk England, the media-proclaimed "Kings of Football (Soccer)". Alfred would be the first to tell you, "King of Football" did not entail a good drinker. Neither did 3-1 odds of winning the whole damn thing.

Currently, Alfred was sitting on the floor, back resting against England's nice couch (that he wouldn't let Alfred plop down on no matter how many times he asked), surrounded by Spain, both Italys, France, the "King of Football", and some other nations that he really didn't care to mention. They were all taking jabs at his expense as a pre-game ritual.

"Ha! Do you know the bastardo lost 11-0 to Norway?" Southern Italy was chatting with his brother.

"Ahh, no. Ve~ I did not realize that you could lose by 11 points."

"This'll be a fucking bloodbath."

Oh right. He forgot to mention something. Today, 1950 FIFA World Cup Brazil, he was going to play good old England. Yay. Now he'd hear more of his morose mutterings about how he should have never become independent, because his sports teams were a mess. That would inevitably lead into an argument about taking out the 'u' in favorite and color, somehow.

Spain piped up, attempting to console Alfred and effectively breaking his train of thought, "Amigo do not feel bad about being eliminated-"

"The game hasn't even started." Alfred groused, interrupting the Spanish nation, still a little bit bitter about his previous loss. "Will all of you stop making fun of me! Not cool." The various nations in the room stopped whispering to one another and gave him a look that said something along the lines of: you made your bed now sleep in it.

"Shut up! You bloody wankers! The match's starting!" England's voice broke through the mutters that had picked back up again. Alfred pouted at the Englishman, he totally knew that England would be playing America in Group 2. He had planned it as some sort of awful revenge. "You ready to lose, Yank?"

"Not a chance old man!" Alfred stuck his tongue out childishly. Oh gosh, his pride was going to kill him.

"Care to put your money where your mouth is?"

"Bring it." Shut up you idiot!

England put his hand out to shake and stated the terms, "Whoever loses has to spend the rest of the Cup doing what the other person wants."

Don't agree, don't agree, don't agree- "Deal."

Alfred spaced out through the usual blathering that occurred before a game actually started, only paying attention (and shooting up with his right hand over his heart) for the national anthem.

Finally, the players got on the field and the match started for real. Within minutes his heart was racing as an English forward took a shot at his goal, but thankfully hit a post. Then, that happened 5 more times within the first 12 minutes, and Alfred was sure that he was going to lose miserably; any form of hope erased at the complete lack of possession his team had of the ball.

By the 26th minute he was sure that the one time that his team had come third in the World Cup was a fluke. Or maybe some of England's 'magic'. Of course, that had been many years ago with different players.

His grip on the pillow, that he'd stolen from the couch sometime after the English team's 4th shot on goal, as the Americans finally had a shot to score.

Come on! At least one goal! Don't make this a shutout.

Unsurprisingly, they missed.

He watched as England's team made three more shots at his goal, missing each one, and wondered how he wasn't losing by now.

Then his chance came. Somewhere around the 35th minute, his team had a rare moment of possession. Alfred glanced at England, he seemed unperturbed with his head lolled back and mouth curved into a slight smirk. Bastard. Absolute bastard.

"Mon ami look! The American's taking a long shot."

At the Frenchman's comment Alfred's eyes snapped back to the screen. It was, uh, what's his name, er, oh right Bahr. He had kicked the ball from about 25 yards, and it was sailing straight at the goal, which that also meant straight into the goalie's hands. That is, until that other guy who was standing there (Gaetjens or something) dove head first and knocked it off course.

For a moment Alfred, and the cameras, were unsure of where exactly the ball went. And then it hit him: it made it into the back of the net, and he jumped up screaming, "USA, USA, WHOOO!" No one else indulged in his celebration, choosing instead to drop their jaws and stop breathing, "In your face you freaking Limey!" (Ignore that he'd stolen that from Tony).

"Lucky shot," was all the stunned Englishman could say meekly.

The rest of the game was kind of a blur. It involved a lot of cheering, whooping, and at one point England had grabbed him by the collar and slammed him into a wall, complaining about the fact that one of his players had pulled a sketchy tackle.

"Do you see that git! He fucking grabbed my player's legs! That should be a penalty kick!" He was wailing right in Alfred's ears after getting drunk sometime in the second half.

"Dude, it was outside the penalty box. Listen to the refs!"

The British nation collapsed sobbing after the referees ruled that the free kick, that had been rewarded instead, hadn't crossed the goal line, "I'm gonna be the laughingstock of the world!"

Thus, the game finished without a hitch for the USA (and many hitches for the English for obvious reason), and in no time the nations were filing out the door.

"Angleterre! That was embarrassing even for me, I can't imagine how it feels to be you!" France threw the comment over his shoulder on the way out, receiving only an illegible garble in response. Granted, that was only one of the insults that England received, as everyone seemed happy that the "best team in the world" had been taken down a few pegs.

Alfred was the last one to leave, because he'd wanted to see all of the taunts directed at England, and a teensy tiny little part of him also wanted to make sure that he wasn't going to pass out, wasted, on his couch.

"Just in case you didn't realize it, you lost the bet." Alright, so he also wanted to throw in a bit of a jab himself, "football tomorrow? And I mean real football."

"Go away," came the gruff reply.

"Aww, come on, don't be a sore loser."

"Go away," England repeated, this time with a little more gusto.

"Seven in the morning. Don't be late," was Alfred's cheeky response.

His glee only grew tenfold when England lost to Spain days later, effectively eliminating the favorite for the win from the competition. Alfred, of course, would never let him live that down.

AN: Yeah. This is a true story. Everything is based on facts from a very reliable source (Wikipedia; jk it really did happen). England was the favorite to win the first cup after the World Cups hiatus for WW2, (in fact, by most, they were considered the best team in the world) but they were eliminated in the first round because of the amateur Americans (and the Spanish, but that's not the point of this story). Fun fact: every newspaper that covered sports was reporting the news except, surprisingly, England and America. Anyway, the more you know.


	2. Chapter 2

AN: Angsty, no-pairing one shot. Maybe a little bit of France is attracted to America thing though. What if America was a on his knees instead of England? Uh most of these stories are probably going to be about America and England, actually. They're kid of my favorite characters. Not necessarily pairings though, I'm just fond of they're interactions.

Characters: America, England, France, Prussia.

No.

He couldn't even look up. Tears mingled with the rain running down his cheeks. His hair was matted with dirt, sweat, grime, and gunpowder; remnants of a bitter struggle. Blood poured out from a bayonet slash on his torso, turning into a light pink stream when it came into contact with the torrent of water. It painted the landscape red.

This wasn't supposed to happen.

Someone was trying to pry the gun out of his frigid hands, but his pride wouldn't let go. He heard a grunt of frustration, then with surprising force the musket was torn away, it clattered on the ground. Perhaps it was someone who thought he was as dead. That was ok; it was better that way.

Am I dead?

He was almost content to lie there all of eternity, mulling over failure after failure: if only we'd won at Saratoga, then the French would have joined the war, and I wouldn't be lying here in the mud surrounded by dead soldiers. If only there were more supplies. If only. But, he couldn't— there had to be another way. He wasn't done with the war; it'd only just begun. There had to be a way to free his oppressed people

That was when he heard a familiar voice, "Get up now, I know you're not dead." He ignored the order, knowing someone would wrench him up anyway. Someone did. His stance was shaky from the cold weather and exhaustion, but his eyes remained as defiant as ever. For a moment there was only ragged breathing, broken by the occasional scream of dying agony.

The man in front of him was a stranger, but not one at the same time. There were wisps of his childhood mentor remaining, but most of his glare was filled with anger. He was angry. And, probably felt betrayed. Alfred smiled ever so slightly, mostly to irk the man, but also at the fact that he'd at least caused him some grief.

"I should bloody kill you. I should send you to prison where you can rot forever. I should torture you until you cough up all the information a Major of your stature would posses. I should do all of those things really."

Alfred didn't dignify the statement with a response, instead he coughed up more blood into his sleeve staining the noble blue once again. It matches his coat, he thought venomously. His knees were threatening to buckle, there was a subtle ringing in his ears, and the world was swaying. Alfred realizes he's probably going to pass out soon.

"Well, you git, what do you have to say for yourself!" He was getting angry now, green eyes flashed dangerously, knuckles turning white from an iron grip, cheeks flushed red. Arthur always had a short fuse.

"Screw you," and then he collapsed onto the grass and fell into a fitful unconsciousness.

. . . .

He was vaguely aware of the sound of a ticking clock, it was loud and sounded broken and offbeat. Tick tock pause tick pause tock tick. It was almost as irregular as Alfred's sporadic heartbeat. Which sped up as soon as he realized that he wasn't wearing an army uniform, and the bed was definitely was too comfortable and plush to be his cot in the barracks.

He briefly wondered if he'd been captured. No. That couldn't possibly be it, this was no jail cell.

Suddenly memories came flooding back, he lost. He lost the war. Alfred abruptly sat up instantly regretting it, as the room began to sway. He gripped the headboard for support. Fresh tears threatened to squeeze out from under his eyelids, but he forced them back, soldiers absolutely did not cry. The shot the enemy, saved their country, got the girl, but they certainly didn't cry. Back on the battlefield it'd been a moment of weakness, and he would not be repeating it.

The room smelled heavily of tea, and was possibly the most lavish thing he'd seen in the colonies since his house back in Virginia. He started to get up ignoring the stabbing pain in his side, and walked to the door, it was locked. Grinning, he walked back a few paces to get a good run up, nothing a little super strength couldn't fix. Alfred ran forward slamming his shoulder against it, then almost howled in pain at the force of the impact, but the door wouldn't budge, it simply crackled with green lightning (of course he didn't actually see that part).

Someone must have been smart enough to know he could frolic with the buffalo if he so pleased and barricaded the exit. Perhaps the window would be open. He had to get out and see what was going on.

So, it was a room on the second floor, in Richmond perhaps. He frowned, he must have been passed out for at least a couple of days, Yorktown was good weeks walk, faster, however, on horse. The window had been left unlatched, apparently his stupidity had been horribly underestimated. He could just imagine Arthur saying, "Poor bloke won't try to jump out of a window."

He rolled up his cotton sleeves then frowned. The shirt and black pants (not trousers) wouldn't do, he needed to retrieve his uniform. But first, he needed to get out of the tea ridden room. In a flourish he slid out of the window and grabbed onto a loose cobblestone, finally he landed with an unceremonious thump on some petunias. Shame, they were pretty.

It was the middle of the night and pitch black, he could barely see two feet in front of him, he could still hear though, so when the clatter of a carriage echoed down the street he jumped into a bush of what he hoped wasn't poison oak. It stopped in front of the house, and out stepped a redcoat soldier, one of status, and Arthur. The name tasted like venom.

He was chuckling about something, arms wide in appreciation, "I do believe that the rebels that are left will be squashed out soon. Washington won't be able to escape for long, and then it's a matter of time before their spirits die." Alfred couldn't describe the happy feeling that swelled in his chest when he heard that Washington was still out there, perhaps with troops. Maybe his regiment was the only one that had been demolished. Alfred was in the front lines after all.

They stood out stark against the night, so Alfred could see every movement, including when Arthur bid the other man goodbye and headed inside.

Alfred ran as quietly as he could without alerting Arthur of his presence— he never was known for his stealth, but it seemed to do the trick.

Trying to find the uniform was risky, and probably not worth it, but he was determined to retrieve it. If just to irk the English personification.

Where would he go afterwards? Alfred had no idea. This was just kind of a one step at a time thing for him.

He'd only opened one drawer when he heard a loud curse then a slam. His eyes widened, suddenly Alfred realized that he had nowhere to go, he hadn't expected Arthur to go check on him first.

He ducked behind the drawers, just narrowly avoiding being seen.

"Bloody idiot, doesn't realize I let him off easy." Arthur was angrily running his hand through his blonde hair, while pulling off his red coat that had been ditched just seconds earlier. He seemed just about ready to walk out the door when he paused and crossed his arms, "How long are you planning to crouch there?"

Alfred didn't move a muscle clinging onto some childish hope that he happened to be talking to someone else. Arthur sighed and walked over to him, grabbing his shoulder, and roughly pulling him up.

Pleasingly, Alfred still towered over the other man. However, he still felt small under his withering gaze, "Where is it?" Alfred seethed, "Where's my uniform?"

Arthur waved his hand dismissively, "That old thing? In the garbage. You won't be needing it again, the little uprising is done, declaration burned, ragtag group with guns demolished-"

"Army," Alfred gritted, "We were an army."

Arthur crossed his arms, and clicked his tongue almost sympathetically, "Come on now, you're bleeding again like a fool."

Alfred barely registered that in his decent from the window he had reopened the gash in his side. A crimson puddle was staining the green carpet right by his foot and running to the chest of drawers, "I'm leaving."

Arthur gripped his shoulder tightly, "You're my colony. Whether you can frolic through town or not is under my discretion. And right now I say that you need bed rest."

Alfred stiffened.

"I'm leaving," he repeated, wrenching his shoulder out of the other man's grasp.

"Please don't act like a child, though I'm sure that's asking a lot. You lost. It's over. Accept that." Arthur took a few steps to the right a picked up his musket, as if prepared to shoot. Alfred started to turn around, knowing that he couldn't leave, but he could irritate the man in the very least. Unsurprisingly, there was a crack as the butt of Arthur's gun connected with his head. Normally, that wouldn't have phased Alfred, but he was already weak from losing the war and the pain in his heart from the thousands in unrest in contrast to the betraying ray of happiness from the Loyalists—almost drown out by the mourning— were, so he crumpled like a piece of paper.

. . . .

It's possible that he had passed out for longer this time.

At least it's day; he can tell even through his eyelids, which Alfred's keeping closed stubbornly, because he's here. He'd been there for at least 15 minutes, watching Alfred pretend to be asleep.

Arthur probably knows he's awake.

. . . .

Alfred is up some time later, after deciding that he'd leave as soon as his wounds had healed. Wounds that he wouldn't have for very long if he'd be a country. They healed faster than colonies.

Alfred wanted to scream, cry, and demand to be recognized as independent, but he wasn't that childish, contrary to whatever his brother-

Ex-brother said.

. . . .

He snuck out sometime a week later. Not that he could tell exactly when. Arthur hadn't told him the date. Actually, Arthur hadn't told him anything. Not about the state of affairs, not about where they were, not about even what he was planning to do with Alfred. Apparently, his fragile mind was too weak to handle a little bit of information.

Mind you, Alfred wasn't one to not snoop around a bit. And he had.

And he found a plan to take Alfred back to England until he simmered down. (Yuck! Over his dead body.). A half written letter to Parliament asking for more troops— dated before his loss, and an overview from Georgia.

According to the report, the army wasn't dead. It turns out Arthur had lied to him. Shocker. Alfred knew that his regiment's obvious, bloody defeat hadn't been a trend. Instead, the other parts of the army doggedly retreating to the southern states where there was less civilization, and the plantations were spread far apart. Not his choice destination, his body ached at the feeling of his people being in incredible pain (he'd asked Washington about it when they were on they're way to Yorktown, but all he'd gotten was a puzzled look), but it would do.

They were to meet with a Prussian general who had just managed to make it to new world, though he had been inspired by the cause for weeks.

Unfortunately for him— and the rosebush he was crushing— the town that Arthur was staying (probably Richmond) crawled with redcoats. Redcoats that knew he was missing, and were searching the streets feverishly.

"Mistah' why are you crushing our rosebush?" Came a squeaky voice from behind him.

Alfred stumbled back into the cobble wall and turned to glance in the direction of the noise. To his relief it was just a little girl clad in a blue dress. It was heavy, woolen, and looked way to hot for warm November day. He could tell from her flushed cheeks that she probably would agree with him if he asked.

"I-Er- was chasing a butterfly."

"Reawy? Me too! Until mommy told me come inside and hush up, because the lobsters were looking for someone."

Alfred chuckled, "Aww. That's no fun. I'll be sure to catch one for you if I can." He hated causing the town so much trouble.

Her face brightened, "Wanna come inside for some apple pie? My maid makes good pie, sir."

"I don't-", he paused at her crest fallen face, "your mommy-", he stopped once again at her now trembling lip, "well alright. I can't see how it could hurt." Oh it could definitely hurt. The longer he stood in this town, the more of a chance he had of getting caught.

He would have to face Arthur again if he got caught. They'd be off to England, where he could never escape, before he knew it.

The girl bounded happily into the house tugging Alfred along with her. The door led straight into a kitchen. It was beautiful and ornate. Like the house belong in one of the picture books Arthur used to read to him.

The woman who had been cutting up celery to add to a boiling pot look horrified.

"Wilhelmina! Miss where were yuh!? Your ma was worried sick. And who's this? You can't just bring strangers into the house. I'm terribly sorry suh."

She bustled around him, and demanded he sit down and have some stew with the family for his troubles. Soon the table was occupied by prim woman, stuffy gentleman, and the little girl from earlier (smile slightly less bright probably from a chastising).

There were all pleasant, and very revolutionary. Apparently they weren't English, but French, who came over here to start a plantation. This was just their vacation home.

The best part was, because they were revolutionaries, he found out about the state of affairs.

They army had met up with the general who agreed to train them (the report he'd read earlier must've been older; he didn't pay attention to the date), and won a little battle against the British.

Alfred could only hope that the French would get involved soon. They'd been toying with the idea for a while, but nothing had pushed them over the edge.

Suddenly, a sharp knock echoed through the room followed soon after by a gruff voice, "We have a warrant to search your house."

Alfred took this as his cue to leave, and quickly got up to jump out the window, sending a small salute to his fellow rebels.

. . . .

It'd only been a few weeks since he'd arrived at the encampment, and, to his surprise, and in contrast to the last time he'd seen the army, the daily going ons looked relatively well organized. He supposed, begrudgingly, that it had to do with the rude, stubborn Prussian that was currently making him do push-ups, while complaining about the hessian soldiers that were in the English military.

"Traitors to their own country, fighting for those fucking Limeys. Which in essence means they are traitor to me! Ugh!" Alfred forgot to mention that he also happened to be a country.

"I know dude, let it all out."

. . . .

Alfred was pleased to see that more and more farmers from occupied areas were getting sick of Military rule and joining his cause.

Soon the failure at Yorktown (and his horrible defeat) would be long forgotten in the thralls of new soldiers joining the cause.

They'd be back at full strength in no time at all.

. . . .

The French country wanted him.

He could tell the second that the extravagant boat had landed on his shores revealing the blonde man (whom he vaguely remembered from childhood) decked in rich colors. He had wined and dined him silly— foregoing the fact that they were in war in favor of having a good time.

Alfred was going to get the French to join them, even if it meant playing dress up with a pompous idiot.

"Amerique, I still wonder how you grew up to be so handsome under the troll's care," tutted Francis, while stroking his hair.

Alfred sighed and pushed the other man away, annoyed, "Francis," he warned, "this isn't the time. Negotiations. Now."

Francis pouted, but resigned, and pulled out a piece of paper, "We, the French, inspired by your perseverance have decided to offer you aid in the pursuit of defeating the empire of Great Britain. Also I want to see Arthur cry on his knees, preferably in the rain."

Alfred knew the last part hadn't officially been in the letter, but it still reminded him of his lo... Temporary loss at Yorktown.

"In return, once this war is over, you must repay us with the appropriate amount of francs for the damage to our army and supplies..."

Alfred nodded along barely listening to the regulations of the deals. They didn't matter— he needed the French no matted what.

. . . .

This was an oddly familiar scene.

The rain was the same. So we're the sound of war. Except this time-

This time he was going to win.

And he did. He won his first major battle. Granted, Francis would tell you that is was the French who really won, but that was beside the point.

. . . .

Alfred stood still in the chaos, staring down at his former caretaker. The man had burst into tears.

"I-" Arthur's voice cracked as another sob wracked his body, "I thought that the loss would get the message into that bloody thick skull of yours. You're not ready to be alone."

"We're done here," Alfred started coldly, "Consider me independent. Your troops need to be removed from my land, immediately."

"Why?" Arthur cried, "Why does everyone leave me?"

Alfred's resolve softened, "I hope one day we can be friends again. Until then, England."

He left the red battle field.

AN: Whew. Originally this was going to be a multi-chapter story, and then I was like nope. I don't wanna do the research for that long of a story. But, I had a few parts written out already, so I condensed it. This is like a 'if the Americans had lost a Saratoga and hadn't gotten the French to join the war' story. Also, a 'if the Prussian general (who originally was Baron Von Steuben, but I changed to Prussia like in the strip) had arrived late' story too. I figured that Arthur would probably still care about Alfred, therefore wouldn't abandon him. The French would probably join eventually even without a win at Saratoga, because at this point the French Revolution was stirring, and they were all for rebellion (granted, it hadn't actually started yet). And Prussia I just put in there, since we all need a little Prussia in our lives.

Some notes:

-Hessian soldiers where highly trained Germans who were paid to serve in the British military. Everyone was terrified of them. And, while there's no evidence that the Germans particularly cared that their people were fighting for the Brits, (at least not from my very brief research), and princes actually hired them out, but I feel like Prussia would be mad.

-I'm going to ignore the fact that if there had been a loss at Saratoga it's likely that there never would've been a battle at Yorktown, because the timeline would be altered, and just say that somehow that happened. It was an oversight on my part. Sorry!

-Francs were the French currency before the Euro.


End file.
